Is This Thing On?

I walked into the old apartment building. It was of pre-war vintage, and had the musty smell that old buildings seem to accumulate but cannot remove. All was quiet, but I could not shake the sense of being watched. Why had I come? A letter, purporting to be from an old friend, one from whom I had not heard in many years, asked me to come. The tone was desperate. I went at once.

Inside the lobby, my unease grew. Why would Miss M___ contact me, of all people, after all these years? We had not parted on the best of terms, though I still cherished her friendship. Perhaps I hoped we could pick up where we had left off. That feeling of hope sent me to this address, but it had completely faded now. Clearly no one lived here any longer. I glanced at the mail sticking out of one of the slots: the date was months before, and the paper was yellow with age.

I could see no one, yet I still sensed a presence above me. I climbed the stairs - was that a moan I heard above me?

I climbed still further, knowing how foolish I was. Though I was armed, I knew I would have been better served to call the police and let them search the premises. Indeed, as I no longer believed Miss M_____ had sent me the letter, I had no reason to remain. Yet I hesitated, not wanting to seem a silly woman in front of the authorities. There it was again! Still the sound seemed above me.

Hmmm, that premise started out strongly, but petered out. Perhaps we'll return to it some day. In the meantime, I'm just hanging about.

And, dramatically speaking, when there is a blood-stained floor in Act One, there's going to be a body on it providing new stains by Act Four.


Pictures taken at REC, a Japanese sim with a movie tie-in. As far as I could tell, the movie is actually a Spanish film from 2007 called *REC, i.e., the recording button on a handheld video camera. The Internet Movie Database provides the following synopsis: "While covering the night shift at a small-town fire department, an ambitious young television reporter (Manuela Velasco) and her cameraman follow the crew on a call to rescue an elderly woman (Matt Frew) trapped in her apartment. Upon their arrival at the scene, the calm midnight air is pierced by the sound of horrific screams, and the television report takes an unexpectedly dark turn."

Some of the instructions for the sim were in Japanese only, and mine is a little rusty, so no doubt I missed some of the fun. But the basic idea is to pick up a free "video camera" and wear it, so that one appears to be looking through the viewfinder. (The attachment seemed to create problems moving, so I eventually took it off.) As one moves through the apartment, various parts flash, and clicking in that area - something of a hit or miss proposition - causes animations to happen. In the end, one finds one's self in...a room that plugs the movie. Well, I did say it was a movie tie-in.

Morality in Virtual Worlds, Part 2

I thought this Journal needed a visit to an actual Gorean sim, but such a location did not seem to be my cup of tea. There was only one solution: ask my sister Kathy to do it! Kathy blushed, demurred, hemmed, and hawed, but in the end gave in. I suspect she secretly wanted to be carried away by a brawny man. Well, to each her own. I’ll let Kathy take it from here:

Having heard of the wonders of the Kingdom of Sand, and the availability of a “Visitor” tag, I made my way there. Item one: the lag was horrendous. About 50 avatars were in the sim, and movement was sluggish beyond belief. Unlike the usual tourist trap, where the ride always ends in the gift shop, here the shop is to one's right at the teleportation point. One can buy all the silks, nipple piercings, and such any girl needs. In the center are various jars containing visitor tags, information on the sim, and such. To the right is a library (I expected to see the usual pamphlets with the collected wisdom of John Norman. You know: "A woman does not reach her potential until she has been properly rogered by a real man." Must have missed it.), which also contains the teleportation site for the RP area below.

Here is a picture of the arrival area, high in the clouds:

No doubt about it, the sim is beautiful. Here is the walled city, with some vaguely ancient Greek-looking structure below:

I'm not quite sold on the Middle Eastern theme as being particularly Gorean, but I suppose it goes with dancing girls and slave markets.

Dancing girl:

And slave market:

I left as the bidding for the young lady was getting started, and the gentlemen started heaping abuse on her.

The visitor tag was helpful. I tried to stay out of the way as much as possible - obviously, I'm not a fan of the whole scene, but, even so, interfering in their RP is just rude (I'm like a Captain Kirk who actually obeys the Prime Directive and doesn't sleep with the natives) - but, let's face it, I wasn't dressed like a native and I wasn't acting like a native, so it was useful to have the observer tag. I did overhear a funny conversation between two participants and a visitor. Player 1 was explaining to the visitor that his typist's large hands hindered his typing. The visitor's vocabulary consisted mainly of "LOL" and "LMAO." Player 2 was desperately trying to keep things in character and remind Player 1 of the need to keep in character, and was thus sounding confused about the relevance of the keyboard. Roleplaying: it's a tough job.

I'll turn the post back to Rhianon for a last word. And thanks, sis, for the assignment - I've got sand in my Ferragamo shoes.

Everyone who participates in the Sandy Kingdom does so voluntarily. Even so, is there not something wrong about "selling" a human being? Even a representation of a human being? - RJ

Morality in Virtual Worlds, Part 1

Recently, Hotspur O'Toole raised the issue of morality in virtual worlds. His comment was in the context of griefers, and I opined that the issue was one of manners rather than morality. Not that issues of morality cannot arise in virtual worlds, but griefing is essentially an offense against the typist, not the avatar. Shooting someone in a non-combat area is an annoyance, unsociable, just not nice - but the purpose is not evil in the way that a violation of one person by another is evil. Putting it another way, consider griefing within a role-playing environment: because the griefer's activities are outside the RP, it must be the case that the griefing is directed at the typists. As such, griefing is an annoyance, not a moral concern.

On the other hand, consider interactions among avatars as avatars, that is, within the context of the RP environment. If Mr. A rapes and tortures Miss B, there is a moral offense. Even though SL requires consent on the typist's side, the fact remains that Mr. A committed an act that offends the human notions of right and wrong. Of course, it is possible to RP an environment where a different sense of morality holds sway, but the fact remains that a human being is making a decision that runs counter to basic human decency.

This musing brings me to Gorean sims. I have read one of the Gor books to see what the fuss is about. I found the writing to be sophomoric, the plot unimaginative, the characters wooden, and the worldview of the author - particularly the adolescent teen male fantasy that men were born to dominate and use women - offensive. The book left a bad taste in my mouth.

(To be continued. Next: Kathy visits the Kingdom of Sand.)

The Village

The late 1960s were a time of youthful rebellion against long-standing societal norms, including government institutions. Much of this was fairly mindless, and, frankly, silly, but it did inspire a fair amount of high quality output in the popular arts. The year 1967 brought us Sgt. Pepper, and debut albums from The Doors and The Velvet Underground, along with the Jefferson Airplane’s Surrealistic Pillow and Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale.” In the cinema, there was Bonnie and Clyde and Cool Hand Luke and Belle du Jour.

The same year also brought the short-lived TV series The Prisoner. Conceived by and starting Patrick McGoohan, the show chronicled the attempts by a former spy to leave “The Village,” a seemingly-bucolic town where everyone was under constant surveillance and from which there was no escape. As “Number 6,” McGoohan wrestled with the question of which side his captors worked for, while maintaining his defiant attitude toward them and resisting their increasingly desperate efforts to learn his secrets. “I am not a number – I am a free man!” he bellows at the leader of The Village, Number 2, who only laughs at McGoohan.

The show became a cult favorite (and is reportedly being remade for 2009 in a six-episode series), no doubt in part because of the clever plots and battles of wits between No. 6 and those positioned against him. (In one episode, No. 6 “escaped” back to London, even returning to his old offices to tell the story of his captivity to an old colleague, only to find that his escape was orchestrated by No. 2 and that “London” was really a soundstage back in The Village and his old colleague was working for No. 2.) But the show was also an allegory about self-determination and the dangers of authority, a theme that fit in well with the late 1960s, but whose message resonates even today.

The Village is a set of three sims developed by Catty Erde that recreate the look and feel of the show, from the seaside houses to Rover, the white ball that acts as a sentry to prevent escapes and discipline the defiant. Though neither Victorian nor Steampunk in its aesthetic, I see The Village as a kindred spirit, combining the well-scrubbed look of the town and polite repartee of its residents with a darker undercurrent. In the Steampunk genre, this darker undercurrent reflects the downsides of industrialization – the dark satanic mills, exploitation of children in sweatshops – as well as the dangers and triumphs of the men and women of science, toiling alone, for good or for evil, and using science to reshape the world around them. In The Village, the darker undercurrent is the constant struggle to maintain one’s individuality and freedom (whether physical freedom or merely intellectual freedom) against the totalitarian forces of the government (or, more generally, against those in power). Though no doubt Patrick McGoohan would object to the comparison, his creation stands along side the works of Ayn Rand as a warning against the tendencies of socialism to crush individual liberties. Or, if one prefers more modern references, The Prisoner is a reminder that, no, one does not need or want a village to raise a child.

Coming into the village:

An aerial view:

Encounter with Rover:

A little psychedelia, befitting the period:

Nothing like a copy of the Tally Ho, the village daily:


"Who are you?" "I am the new Number Two."

There is only one way out of the village:


Hat tip to LadyStargazer Graves for mentioning the sim in ISC chat.

Rivet Town and the Difficulties of Role-Playing

I spent some time in Rivet Town, a new Victorian/Steampunk role-playing area. Well, new to me: others may already know of it – indeed, after the discussion of alts on the Forums some weeks ago, I realize I may have encountered some of my fellow Caledonians without knowing it – and at least two other Aetheric Journals have commented on the town, but I stumbled across the concept after reading another avatar’s profile. (I am a hopeless profile addict, which makes it all the more embarrassing when I do not update mine regularly.)

After arriving in the town's "train station" where one can receive a Rivet Town game meter/observer tag and the day's weather forecast, one has a choice of teleporting to Rivet Town East or North. The former is the white collar section of town while the latter is the blue collar section. Below is a shot of one of the narrow streets with tenements on either side:



The photos below show some of the nicer section of town, with professional offices - lawyers, the patent office, and some shops. The green sign indicates a branch of Mr. Newbe Writer's Steam Works.



There is a courthouse


and some lovely houses.


A few minor carps about the notecard explaining the background of the town and the story: first, if the town was happy and prosperous but isolated back in the good-old days before the proletariat came to town, who manufactured the goods the rich folk consumed? Second, with the blue collar workforce came "crime, prostitution, panhandling...even the consumption of spirits." Doesn't that seem just a bit elitist? The upper class does not seem to be immune to the various vices listed, up to and including the "consumption of spirits." (A vice I will admit to on occasion.)

I have mixed feelings about the “24/7 role-playing” dictum of Rivet Town. On the one hand, if one takes the concept seriously, OOC behavior and conversation is as inappropriate in a Victorian sim as in, say, the City of Lost Angels or a Buffy RP sim. On the other hand, I hate the idea of being on my toes all the time, constantly monitoring my behavior and remarks to see if anything would be deemed OOC. I assume that, in practice, minor deviations from the concept are ignored, and somewhat larger ones are gently corrected, but I can also imagine many people interested in the concept giving up and saying “Who needs the stress?”

I also have to wonder how much actual role-playing goes on. During my limited stay in the City of Lost Angels, most people were loitering on the street corner, engaging in OOC conversation. And that's a successful RP sim.

Then again, unlike many people I encounter, who admit to online role-playing experiences outside SL - indeed, sometimes going back years - I have never participated in RP for any length of time. The whole concept of creating an extensive back story of one’s character that simultaneously fits into the overall “plot” also seems fairly stressful. (And, while I realize that some structures do not lend themselves readily to democracy, the idea that someone else gets to decide on how I fare is a little grating – the way I imagine a soap opera actor feels when his character gets to lie in a coma for a month while contract negotiations linger.) And how does one coordinate people with different on-line schedules, anyway? If Bob commits a crime against Mary and Jack arrests Bob who gets Jill to defend him in Judge Sam’s court, don’t we need to coordinate in-world time for at least five people? Given the vagaries of my schedule and various SL problems, this seems like a problem to me, although perhaps others can commit to more time in-world.

Nonetheless, I wish the Rivets well - a happy and prosperous role-playing.

...And the Misery Continues

I realize that Aetherial connections work more by Magic than Science, at least in my presence. Others may have a deep understanding of the way things work; I push buttons until something good happens.

I finally traced a wireless connection problem to a bad NIC card. Popped in the new card ("new" being a relative term, as it had been sitting for a while), eventually downloaded the software for it (the original installation disc having gone to some other dimension, along with all those mismatched socks from the washing machine), and - presto! - back in business. Now, why couldn't all those smart routines have diagnosed a bum card and flashed a warning at me?

Unfortunately, still intermittent problems with the modem/router itself. I'm beginning to think last weekend's brownouts didn't do my power supply any favors. Wish me luck as I argue with the nice phone company...

The Ephemeral Nature of Our (Second) Lives

I have been delinquent in posting this weekend in large part because of the time my typist spent attempting to debug her computer network. Problem 1: WiFi connection stopped working. When that was solved, we had Problem 2: WiFi connection works just great - but won't connect to the Internet. (Connecting the computer with an Ethernet cable brought everything back, so no doubt some obscure setting on either the router or laptop is at fault. Sigh.) That problem had to wait while I attempted to deal with Problem 3: the connection with the Internet seemed to fail frequently. I would log into SL, only to be kicked offline a minute or two later - and for once this did not seem to be a SL-related problem, as I had intermittent troubles with web sites, e-mail, etc. As the evening wore on, the problems seemed to be getting worse. The last time something like this happened, I eventually tracked the problem to an overheating DSL modem. Replacing the modem solved the problem. This time, having switched to FIOS, I have a new (new) modem but the same symptoms. Is it FIOS? the modem hardware? some software setting? I shall see tonight if a day off solved the problem - it often does wonders for me.

Do I exist? That appears to depend on many things happening at once: SL functioning, various Internet connections outside my house functioning, my own internal network functioning, and my PC functioning. If any one of those dies, so do I...or, at the very least, I go into an annoying limbo.

In the meantime, if anyone has suggestions for how to optimize an Actiontec MI424WR modem with SL, please let me know.

Make Up Your Mind: Are Prices Too High Or Too Low?

I leaned over my drink (dry martini, straight up, extra olive, if you must know) and shook my head. “I don’t mind you taking either side of the argument, Ephesius, but I wish you wouldn’t claim both at the same time. That leaves me with very little to do.”

Ephesius Brachnid and I were at a table at the Falling Anvil pub, now that the Burning Leaf was no longer. What is it with pubs going under, anyway? Do I not drink enough? Do I not attempt to educate my friends over a drink, with which to better lubricate the brain passages? I can hardly keep a pub in business single-handed, and I think I do my share. (I had originally thought of suggesting to Ephesius that we meet at Steamperk, in the Downs and directly across from my residence, but I recalled that the strongest drink I could buy there was espresso, and that never is sufficient to converse with Ephesius.)

“What are you talking about?” he replied. “Your remarks are getting to be as impenetrable as those of Mr. S_____” He mentioned the name of a notorious politician whose oracular pronouncements provided great entertainment to the press and the pundit class as everyone tried to make sense of the cryptic remarks.

“Not at all. Look, we both agree that this nation runs on steam: automobiles, heating, lighting – why, even the famed Steam SkyCity has gears and pistons that are propelled by steam power. And coal generates almost all our steam. Blessed in natural resources as Caledon is, we nevertheless import much of our coal from the far northern provinces. But now that other lands have discovered the virtues of steam power – Steelhead, and Antiquity, and even Winterfell, among others – coal has become much more dear than ever before.”

“So far, we are in agreement.”

“Yes, but is that good or bad? You started by assailing the present administration for allowing this sad state of affairs to come to pass – though you offer no suggestion for how it could have been avoided, short of a pre-emptive war against each of those states for the purpose of keeping them in the age of horse-drawn carriages and burning whale oil – and then complain that those same sad bureaucrats should be excoriated for not providing incentives to use other fuels in place of coal – an outcome that would require coal to become even more dear. First you claim the price is too high, then too low. Well, which is it?”

Ephesius took a sip of his beer and leaned back. “Madam, you twist my words. I do not want to see coal prices go even higher; I merely believe Governor Shang should subsidize other fuels. Caledon has many windy areas, for example – why, we could install wind turbines in the Highlands, adjacent to a Tesla Tower, and generate electricity that way. Surely Miss Avariel Falcon cares not whether she burns coal or harnesses the wind to keep her Towers operating.”

“I have no doubt she would care very much on a calm day. Setting that little objection aside, don’t you see that the implication of your remarks is that coal is too cheap relative to the cost of wind? And how would you pay for this largesse to the wind power industry?”
“A modest tax increase…”

I rolled my eyes. “So I am to pay once to build a wind turbine for the privilege of paying a second time for a power source more expensive than my current option? Mr. Brachnid, you epitomize Mr. Mencken’s expression that no one ‘has ever lost money by underestimating the intelligence of the great masses of the plain people.’ I much prefer the old-fashioned method of allocating coal: when the price goes down, I consume more; when the price rises, I economize.”

“I say, Miss J., you do me an injustice!”

“Drink up, Mr. Brachnid. I do believe the next shout is yours.”

Lost at Sea

I opened the envelope and several pages of foolscap fell out. The handwriting was masculine, and, despite being written with india ink, smeared with water damage in places. I began reading:


Aug 18, 18__
My name is Tom Foster, and I am the captain of the Spirit of Caledon, a charter boat that usually plies the waters in the firth. Day trips to the tourist trade. We don’t have a proper log, but I thought I should write a few words in case rescue fails to arrive in time. You see, when the call came out to the Middlesea Fleet to steam to Saint Kitt Islands on a rescue mission, I summoned my crew. “I think it is our duty to help. Although we lack the speed of the military vessels, the Spirit can hold many more passengers, and we may be of some great assistance.” I had heard down at the dock that many people were gathering on the beach on the main island of Saint Kitt, but there was concern the volcano was not dormant, as reported. I saw Captain O’Toole himself on the docks that morning, and the drawn look on his face showed me how seriously he took the threat. He ordered the fleet to steam to the island in the event a rapid evacuation was needed. I wanted to accompany them, but the decision was not mine alone to make. “We have never traveled that far from shore before, and there is some risk to us if we make the journey. Even though I’m your captain, I must ask each of you if you want to assume that risk.”

My men are solid and loyal, and to a man they threw in their lot with me. Micah Goodwin, my first mate, Zeb McDowell, the engineer, and Stuart Washington and Ronnie Pittston, who man the boiler room, have been with me for many years. We loaded coal, removed the serving staff and valuables, and set out.

Stuart and Ronnie did their best to keep the boilers at maximum output, but we could not keep pace with the fleet. Micah used to be a navigator on one of the old sailing ships in the navy, so he kept us on course even when we could no longer see the last of Captain O’Toole’s vessels. When we made it, we anchored away from the fleet, as I didn’t want to get in their way. We were on the far side of the main island, and if any of the naval vessels noticed us, they did not acknowledge our presence.

As the day wore on, I began to feel a little foolish. Zeb said, “I bet they’re having one hell of a good time down on the beach. Girls in bathing suits, a little rum,…” He pictured himself there, instead of being stuck with four men. Then the rumbling started, so quiet at first that we could hardly hear or feel it. An hour later, the rumbling increased in intensity so much that we were having to raise our voices to be heard above it. “Looks like we may be needed after all,” I observed, and Micah nodded his head.

The shadows were growing long when the volcano erupted. It spewed rocks, ash, and noxious gasses high into the air. “Raise anchor!” I ordered. We started to steam around the island, toward the beach, to see if we could rescue any party-goers. We had not been under way long, though, when an enormous explosion took off the top of the volcano. Large chunks of flaming rock flew in all directions. Some hit the Spirit, starting a few small fires on the teak deck, but the crew doused the flames quickly and it appeared that we suffered no serious damage.

Micah yelled that the helm was not responding to his commands. I made my way from the bow, where I had my spyglass trained on the volcano to see what it would do next, to the bridge. Before I could confer with my mate, a shock wave from the explosion sent a wall of water toward us, engulfing the ship and pushing us away from Saint Kitt altogether. Micah and I held fast to the bulkhead in an effort to keep our feet. I could not see Zeb, and I hoped he, too, was someplace where he would not be washed overboard. Stuart and Ronnie were belowdecks, and so were safe for the moment.

Or so I thought. As we continued to withstand the pounding of the waves, I heard a muffled explosion from below and aft of me. That was the direction of the boiler room. I could do nothing about it at the time; I could only continue to hold on while we were pushed farther and farther from shore.

My hand grows tired. I will pick up the narrative in the morning.

Aug 19, 18__
At long last, the sea calmed. The sun had finished setting during our ordeal, and the sky was now starlit. I looked around me, but saw no sign of land. Micah grasped the wheel again, but still there was no response. Taking the spyglass on deck, I searched for land through the powerful lens, and still found none. By my reckoning, using the constellations as a guide, Saint Kitt Islands should have been south of us, but I could see nothing, not even continuing eruptions from the volcano.

I dropped anchor again, but could not find the sea bottom. It was time to assess the damage, and I started with the boiler room. Leaving Micah at the helm, I went belowdecks, where first I found Zeb, who had ridden out the storm in the galley. The two of us went together to the boiler room. The main drive had overloaded, causing an explosion in the mechanism that punctured the boiler. In turn, this sprayed boiling water throughout the room, killing Stuart immediately and scalding Ronnie badly. When we arrived, Ronnie was on the ground, mourning his friend, and clearly in a state of shock. We did what we could do ease his pain, but it seemed clear to me that Ronnie, too, would not survive unless he received more medical attention than we could give him. Zeb retrieved the medical kit and drew a syringe of morphine, which he administered to the boilerman.

When we made him as comfortable as possible, I took Zeb by the arm and maneuvered him back to the galley. I looked grim. “What is your assessment of the engines? Is there any way to restore power?”

He shook his head. “The boiler and the gearshaft are completely destroyed. We have no means of repairing either of them on board.”

“Aye, I was afraid of that. And the Spirit was never meant to travel far from shore, or she would have had a mast and sail for just such an emergency. As it is, her builders assumed she could be towed if needed.” I bowed my head. This situation was of my making, and my responsibility. I needed to devise a way home.

I considered our situation. We had no means of communication with the Middlesea Fleet save semaphores, which required daylight. There would be no rescue that night. In the morning, if we could make contact, we could either transfer to a naval ship, allowing the Spirit to drift freely, or, if close enough to Saint Kitt Islands or one of the neighboring uninhabited islands, we could attempt landfall first, then transfer to another vessel, hoping to return to rescue the Spirit at a later date. For the moment, we had food, though less than I had originally planned. I had ordered provisions for a meal for two dozen – that being the number of passengers plus the five crew members that would constitute our maximum load – but a number of tins had burst open in the melee, and, worse, we lost overboard our entire supply of fresh water. We had several days’ provisions for the four of us if we were stingy with rations, and some watery rum I used to pass around at the end of a successful cruise.

After checking on Ronnie one more time, Zeb, Micah, and I made ourselves rough beds on deck. We agreed on a watch rotation, with Micah drawing the first watch, I the second, and Zeb the third, and, with that, attempted to sleep.

I was very hungry and thirsty this morning, having not eaten for the better part of twenty-four hours. Micah divided our rations and served us a meager breakfast of cold beans and some rum, which eased but did not completely vanquish the hunger. Ronnie had made it through the night, but was passing in and out of consciousness. I thought morphine would be of greater help to him than food at this point, though that morning’s shot exhausted our supply. His eyeballs rolled back and his breathing became a little easier, so I left him to his narcotic-induced dreams.

The three of us then returned to the deck. I used the spyglass to search for land, but found none. Zeb confirmed that we were dead in the water, and lacked the material to repair the engines. “Thoughts, gentlemen?” I asked.

“We have three flares,” Micah said. If we can spot a ship, we can attract her attention.

Zeb said, “We could lash some of the planks of wood together and build a raft of sorts. I don’t know which way to travel, because we don’t know what direction the closest piece of land lies, but we may have to abandon ship at some point.”

“We can’t leave Ronnie in his condition,” Micah said.

I said the obvious: “As heartless as this sounds, Ronnie’s condition does not matter. He will not last the day. But I would rather take my chances on board the Spirit, where we are sheltered from the elements, than risk a trip in a jerry-rigged raft to travel in search of an unknown landfall. Surely some ship will steam by us – we can’t be too far out of the shipping lanes.” Hope was what we were reduced to.

The light fades for the evening, and I need to sleep again before my watch.

Aug. 20, 18__
Ronnie died during the night. I can only hope he was too far gone to feel much pain, for we were out of morphine. He never cried out, so perhaps God was merciful and let him sleep through the end.

After our daily ration, I conducted a brief service for him, and commended his body to the deep and his soul to the Lord. We could afford little time to mourn him, though. Each of us spent the day scanning the horizon, one with the spyglass and a second by naked eye while the third rested, rotating the glass every fifteen minutes and the watch every hour. No ships passed. We are all very hungry, but had to conserve what was left. Micah’s original allotment had allowed us two more days’ rations, but I suggested we stretch it to three.

We told sea stories to one another. The day passed.

Aug. 23, 18__
The past three days were much like the one before. We searched for rescue and found none. We finished our rations. All of us are weak with hunger.

One moment of excitement came today, when Micah thought he espied a freighter in the distance. Each of us took turns looking through the glass, but none could be certain we were not seeing what we wanted to see. In the end, we thought we could not risk letting a chance at rescue pass us by. Zeb lit the flare, and a brilliant light shot into the sky until it burned itself out. Was a ship out there? If so, would some crewman look in our direction during the few minutes the flare burned and see it? And would he know what he saw from so far away? These questions passed through my mind two dozen times in the next hour, and no doubt they went through my mates’ minds as well, but none of us would speak them aloud. We kept the glass trained on where we had seen the ship, but it never appeared again. Had it been there and did not see our distress signal? Or was it merely a phantom, constructed by our tired and desperate minds, willing it into existence? I knew not which.

Aug. 26, 18__
Zeb is dead. His rugged seaman’s physique had withered, and he alternated between periods of delirium and lucidity. Before he went, I begged his forgiveness for my lapses as captain. He smiled, or tried to, as much as his cracked lips would let him. I could not decide whether he heard my plea and forgave me, or condemned my soul to hell. I lacked the energy to repeat the service we held for Ronnie.

Micah and I also lacked the energy to keep watch. We would occasionally scan the horizon for ships, but both of us knew we were beyond the point of rescue. I was taught that suicide was a sin, but was it really? Were there not circumstances under which God understood and forgave? But then it mattered not, as I lacked the courage to end my own life.

Aug. 27, 18__
No more flares. Micah thought he saw a ship. Both of us shot a flare without consulting the other. When he saw me light the last one, having just shot his, Micah gave me a look of withering hatred before his face returned to its now-perpetual anguish. Did I just remove our last hope? Perhaps I did.

Aug. 29, 18__
The delirium takes me. When I am in its grip, I hear the whack-whack-whack sound of the steam engine coming nearer and nearer, but it never reaches me. I think Micah is gone. I have not heard him for many hours, but I cannot be certain, as I cannot keep my eyes open during the day. I pen these words a few at a time, at dusk, when it is cooler and the penetrating sunlight fades to give my brain small relief. Could he have slipped away, or is he even now continuing to wait for rescue, believing me to have gone first? Where he was once my closest friend, he now has chosen to remain away from my company. His distance magnifies my shame.

Aug. 30, 18__
The whack-whack-whack drives me mad. It is surely the beating of angels’ wings. Or those of devils. I try to remember how to pray, but the words escape me. Devil or angel, it comes for me. May it judge me by my intentions rather than my deeds.


The prior manuscript came to my attention after an expeditionary force searching for future potential Caledon colonies spotted the Spirit of Caledon bobbing in the ocean in early September. Captain Foster lay dead on in the bridge, his body having been ravaged by scavenging birds, his fountain pen and log beside him. – Rhianon Jameson


[Note: the entire story is available on Calameo.com. Click here - RJ]

More Evil

A little bird whispered in my ear that I had not plumbed all the secrets of the doctor's lair. Acting on a tip, I leaned back in the control chair - oh my, just as comfy as the time before! where do evil scientists shop? - and, manipulating the controls, rose to the navigation room of the structure, Lord Smashington.

As I was learning the doctor's deepest secrets, I heard footsteps. Had the doctor returned? I was trapped in the head of Smashington, my only escape route cut off from below. I shuddered to think what would become of me if I fell into his clutches. I began to regret my decision to ignore my father, who implored me to study mathematics more rigorously. (I also began to regret not taking that cheap vacation to Brighton Beach instead of this assignment.) In desperation, I pushed the last remaining button...

...and ejected from Smashington. I had used the doctor's own last-gasp escape device to effect my own escape!